


00Q/Hartwin Tumblr Prompt Collection P.3

by what_a_dork_fish



Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crack, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, and some that I just wrote for tumblr without a prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-01 04:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 13,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10181021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: This is becoming a thing for me. I am so so sorry.





	1. Hartwin: Service Top?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is why I don't write smut.

Prompt: "I’m always down for more service top Harry"

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh you have awakened the foul goblin-beast

* * *

 

“Harry.”

“Eggsy.”

“It’s been a year.”

“So it has.”

Eggsy glared down at Harry, who gazed back calmly. Eggsy was currently on his hands and knees, hovering over Harry, who was lying on the sofa with his book resting against his chest.

Eggsy though he had been quite admirable in his patience. A year. A _year_ of being with Harry, kissing him, sharing his bed, and no sex. And Eggsy hadn’t had sex with anyone else, either. He was desperate for it. Not necessarily the pleasure aspect, although that would be nice, too; he wanted the intimacy, the closeness. He wanted to be sure.

Harry, meanwhile, seemed absolutely content as they were. Which was why Eggsy had waited so long. He didn’t want to force Harry. But tonight, seeing him stretched out on the sofa in nothing but his boxers and his robe, with the light dimmed, that beautiful pensive look on his face… Eggsy had had to go in the other room and focus on breathing. But now he was back and thinking with his downstairs brain.

“Harry, I have been waiting _a fucking year_ ,” he stressed again.

“Waiting for what?” Harry asked, daring to look puzzled.

“Sex!” Eggsy burst out. “That thing where we take out our cocks and put them in each other! I’ve been waiting a _year_ and we haven’t done _anything_!”

“Do you want that?” Harry inquired, surprised now.

“ _Yes_!”

“Oh. Well.” Harry glanced down, to his book–or not? Eggsy couldn’t tell. “I was waiting for you to say something.”

“Waiting for _me_ to–!” Eggsy spluttered, but before he could yell at Harry any more, the elder kissed him.

And put his hand in Eggsy’s pants.

Eggsy groaned and put his hand over Harry’s, kissing back, hard. His cock rose to the occasion, and Harry actually chuckled as he stroked it.

“Fuck you’re bigger than I thought,” Harry murmured.

Eggsy just moaned, hips giving little jerks, thrusting into Harry’s hand.

Somehow Harry coaxed him upstairs, where Harry opened a hidden panel in the linen cupboard and revealed a wide array of lubes and condoms. Eggsy stared at him incredulously, then grabbed the first ones of each that he could reach and dragged Harry to the bedroom.

Stripping Harry took barely five seconds, which was annoying, because Eggsy was still dressed. But he shivered and gasped as Harry peeled away his layers, tenderly, murmuring sweet things and taking time to explore each patch of bared skin with calloused fingertips. Harry pushed Eggsy back on the bed and went slowly, gently; he nipped at a nipple, kissed his bellybutton, licked a long, slow stripe up his cock and chuckled as Eggsy gave a full-throated moan.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Harry murmured, standing over Eggsy, gazing at him tenderly. “And to think, I waited a year to know you.”

“Get down here,” Eggsy demanded, raising his arms to Harry.

Harry laughed and climbed on to the bed, straddling Eggsy. Then suddenly he rolled, taking Eggsy with him, so that he was on his back and Eggsy lay on top of him. Eggsy hissed, feeling Harry’s cock rub against his own.

“So–who fucks who?” he gasped, hoping, hoping, hoping…

“Tonight,” Harry murmured thoughtfully, “Tonight, you can fuck me.”

“Thank you,” Eggsy whispered, and kissed him hungrily, hands already seeking out the lube and the condom.

~

He had always thought Harry was a top. Oh, he’d had fantasies of taking Harry, but he’d also had fantasies about being taken. It was a fun thing to ponder, once in a while.

~

He let out a long, slow breath as he eased into Harry, smiling to feel him so ready. Harry let out a little noise that sounded like “nnnng” and ended with a tiny gasp. His eyes were half-closed already, his mouth red and kiss-swollen and open a little, his chest rising and falling almost as fast as Eggsy’s. Eggsy himself tightened his fingers on Harry’s thighs and began to fuck him slow and hard. He _wanted_ to go fast, but no, that would bring him too close to the end, too soon. And he wanted to make Harry wait, too. Make him feel a fraction of the impatience Eggsy had been dealing with for the past month.

And Harry felt it. He opened his eyes and dared to glare at Eggsy. “If you don’t go faster I’ll never give you a blowjob,” he threatened.

Eggsy smirked and gave a hard thrust that made Harry gulp. “Yes you will.”

Harry held out five more seconds before sighing heavily and muttering, “Yes, you’re right, I will.”

Eggsy laughed.

~

He didn’t know how he did it, lasting that long before finally giving in and fucking Harry at just the right angle at just the right speed. Harry came first, with a deep groan and a beautiful smile. Eggsy resolved to try and elicit that smile tomorrow, too, and the day after, and all the way into as many tomorrows as he could count. He wasn’t sure how he was going to manage; he just knew that he was going to.

Because he loved Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = love, life, and happiness.


	2. 00Q: Mate

Prompt: "00Q fic? Write whatever you'd like! Maybe soulmate AU of some sort?"

* * *

When you meet your soulmate, you know.

That’s what Q’s been told his whole life. You’ll know when you’ve met your soulmate. No one will tell him what it means, though.

He understands when he sees 007 for the first time.

There’s a tingling in his fingers and toes. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He looks at 007 and a flush of warm, desperate longing fills him. He wants to touch the other’s hair, his face, his lips; he wants to kiss away that grumpy look; he wants to sit in his lap and hold him tight and never let go. This. This man is his soulmate. He _knows_ he is.

But he mustn’t show it. Maybe the next time they are alone, Q can tell him. Maybe 007 will say something. Maybe…

The meeting goes smoothly and according to plan. 007 shows no sign that he recognized Q as his ‘mate. Q feels… disappointed. Sad. Miserable, even. But he can’t show it. He can’t.

~

It’s after Silva that Q has his breakdown.

It’s not explosive; it barely registers to anyone. But he’s halfway through cleaning up Silva’s mess when he just… shuts down. He sits there, staring at his screens, unable to remember what he’s doing, why, or how to continue. There’s a yawning abyss of screaming sadness in his chest, and while his hands lay limp and cold in his lap and his voice is still, it feels like his inner self is screaming and tearing at its face, sobbing, sobbing, sobbing because he lost her, he lost M, his iron idol, and it’s all his fault, all his fault all his fault all his fault–

He whimpers, and suddenly someone is standing over him. He doesn’t look up. He’s afraid to. His inner self is still screaming.

“Oh, Q,” the someone murmurs, and kneels beside him, taking his hands in theirs. “Darling, I… I’m sorry.”

Q blinks, feels tears slide down his cheeks, looks down into 007′s–Bond’s–face. “What’d you call me?” he whispers.

“Darling.” Bond switches his grip so he can reach up and run his rough-skinned fingertips along Q’s smooth jaw. He seems surprised at himself, but determined. “I mean it. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

And he means it. Q can see that he means it. So he leans down and presses his forehead against Bond’s, clutching his one hand tightly with both of his own, soothed by the sensation of Bond’s other hand slipping around the back of his neck. His soulmate is here.

And the screaming inside stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = love, life, and happiness.


	3. Hartwin: Dance Class

"For the prompts, how about Harry has to go to a dancing class (for a mission or whatever, it's up to you) where he meets instructor!Eggsy? Romance happens?"

* * *

Harry sighed in defeat, looking up at the foreboding facade of the newest (and most popular) dance school in London. “Do I _have_ to?” he muttered petulantly for the eighth time.

“Arthur said,” Merlin replied shortly, his voice exasperated in Harry’s ear..

Harry frowned, because gentlemen do not scowl, but walked in anyway and smiled politely at the receptionist, a young man with a hawkish nose and a bored expression.

“Hello,” he greeted, “I’m here to–”

“Kids’ classes are full,” the receptionist interrupted bluntly, not even looking up from his magazine.

Harry pressed his lips together tightly. “I’m here to sign up _myself_ ,” he finished in clipped tones, and struggled not to glare as the boy looked up and gaped at him.

“Uh, okay,” the boy said, obviously bewildered. Why? Surely they had senior classes here. “Um, we got contemporary, pole-dancing, ballet, ballroom…”

“Ballroom, please,” Harry answered when the boy trailed off.

“Okay.”

The boy shuffled through papers, found the right ones, clipped them to a board, and handed them and a biro over. Harry murmured his thanks and took a seat to fill out the forms.

Just as he finished the last signature, a door opened, and a group of young people came through, chattering excitedly. Harry glanced up at them, but decided to ignore them, as he stood and walked over to return the forms, clipboard, and biro. He’d been slightly confused when the form had asked for his skill level but not his age, but shrugged mentally as the receptionist took the forms and flipped through them.

“Um, alright, so classes are at 6PM on Saturday–” the receptionist began, but cut himself off and swallowed hard, eyes wide, as he caught sight of someone behind Harry. Harry turned, and saw his target.

Gazelle, suspected smuggler and assassin.

Several agents were working several angles to catch her, but so far everything had come up clean. This was their last resort; sending someone to the school where she “worked”. Harry looked her over, and blinked as he saw her prosthetic legs. No one had mentioned that she had prosthetics. And she was a dance teacher?

“Hello, Miss Gazelle,” the receptionist greeted her, smiling nervously and fiddling with his pen.

Gazelle barely glanced at him. “Hello,” she replied coolly. “Is Morton in yet?”

“Yes, she’s about to start class.”

Gazelle nodded and breezed past. Harry gave her one last thoughtful look before turning back to the receptionist.

~

At 5:40 on Saturday, Harry arrived. He had already broken in two nights previously, and searched the whole school, but had found nothing. Of course he wouldn’t. Gazelle was a professional–if she was even the woman they were hunting. But Arthur had insisted.

Now he stood in the front room and frowned. The receptionist wasn’t there. Hmm. He sat down and waited. The pamphlet he’d been handed when he signed up had said to bring or wear comfortable clothing; so Harry had had to go to Merlin for help finding “proper” things. Merlin had laughed long and loud, then lent Harry an old button-up, a pair of slacks, and some shoes that were definitely not Kingsman appropriate. Frankly, Harry would’ve preferred wearing his suit, damn the consequences. But at least he didn’t have to take the contemporary class.

The receptionist wandered through the door to the school proper, saw Harry, and stared. Harry looked back calmly.

“You’re pretty early, bruv,” the receptionist commented.

“Yes, I know,” Harry replied coolly.

The receptionist furrowed his brow, probably trying to figure out his tone, then shrugged and sat down heavily. “Roxy’s gettin’ set up. Yer pretty unlucky; there’s an uneven number’a students, so you get to be paired with Eggsy.”

“Eggsy?” Harry repeated, unable to help a slightly incredulous tone.

“My mate,” the receptionist explained, and smirked. “You ain’t a homophobe, are you?”

“Not at all.” He didn’t mention that he himself was very, very gay.

“Good.”

And with that cryptic statement, the receptionist got to work.

Soon after that, other students began to file in; some went straight through the doors to the school proper, some waited in little groups, and some stood or sat awkwardly. Ages ranged from barely out of their spots to about forty; Harry was the oldest person there, though he was sure he didn’t look it. He spent some time amusing himself by imagining what each of them did for a living.

Then a bell rang at exactly six, and everyone hurried through the door. Harry followed.

~

After the class, Harry’s hands were still tingling.

The teacher had been young, and short. She’d asked everyone to call her Roxy. And she was merciless. Harry liked her immediately, but only in a paternal kind of way. If he had a daughter, he’d want her to be like Roxy.

Eggsy, however…

Eggsy had been… beautiful. He seemed pleasantly surprised when Harry didn’t protest being paired with him, and even _more_ pleasantly surprised when Harry showed that he hadn’t lied on his forms, and really was an intermediate dancer already. Harry had been very tongue-tied, after that first look into those beautiful hazel eyes, and so had said barely five words to Eggsy beyond “sorry” and “thank you”. He’d been very careful with his touching, as well.

He sat back in the taxi as it trundled through traffic towards the shop, and tried to remember how to breathe properly.

~~

“Well.”

Eggsy sipped his tea and waited for Roxy to continue.

“What do you think?” she prodded.

“Think of what?”

“Of the new student. Harry.”

Eggsy fought a smile. That had been nice, having a partner who knew what he was doing, didn’t act inappropriately, and wasn’t a bastard. “Bit old to be a student, ey?”

“Well, what else should I call him? Disciple? Come on, Eggsy. Just tell me your verdict.”

Eggsy thought about it, he truly did. And he sighed regretfully. “Too old. Handsome bloke, but too old. And he barely spoke to me.”

Roxy frowned at him. “Hmm.” She took a sip of tea. “Maybe he was nervous.”

“Nervous?” Eggsy snorted. “He don’t seem like the type.”

Roxy gave him a look from under her ‘lashes, but said nothing more about the subject.

~~

Three weeks later, Harry was very frustrated.

1\. He had found no evidence of wrongdoing on Gazelle’s part (although he had discovered that she and Roxy were dating and it looked quite serious).  
2\. Arthur was angry with him for some reason.  
3\. He still hadn’t managed to have what he considered a full conversation with Eggsy.

And so, finally, one day after class, when everyone else had filed out, Harry took a breath, turned to Eggsy, and said quite calmly, “May I speak to you for a moment?”

Eggsy gave him a thoughtful look. Then he smiled, and Harry felt his heart leap. “Sure.”

Roxy quietly slipped away and shut the door behind her, leaving them alone.

Harry hesitated. Surely this was improper. Surely this would end very badly. He could already hear Merlin groaning about how foolish he was being, and Arthur berating him for getting mixed up with a child.

But such thoughts, strangely, only strengthened his resolve. And so he asked, slightly rushed, “Would you perhaps consider coming to dinner with me some time?”

Eggsy blinked, his faint smile fading. Harry feared he had done something horribly wrong, and was just about to offer to take the question back, when Eggsy suddenly laughed and said, “Fuck, mate, I thought you’d never ask. Seven tomorrow, I’ll meet you here after my class ends.”

Harry’s heart lifted again, and he smiled back. “Seven, then.”

~

There followed a month that Harry wished would never end. One dinner turned into two, then three, then thirteen; they went dancing several times, to various establishments that ranged from formal to whatever passed for a club in Eggsy’s neighborhood; Harry met Eggsy’s mates, Ryan (the receptionist) and Jamal (the second contemporary dance instructor). And he quietly amassed a wardrobe of casual clothing that he wouldn’t be caught dead in at his usual haunts, because he wanted to fit in with Eggsy’s crowd.

Merlin scowled for two weeks straight, then grudgingly accepted that it was Harry’s life and he could live it as he liked. Arthur never stopped making cutting remarks, though. But that was alright. Harry didn’t care. The other knights clapped him on the back and congratulated him on finally finding someone. They all thought he was shagging Eggsy.

But Harry didn’t want to shag Eggsy (well, he did, but that wasn’t his primary goal). He wanted to… to… hell if he knew. But he loved this sensation of warmth, this feeling of being home, when he was with Eggsy. He… he loved Eggsy.

He had never fallen so hard and so fast, but it was glorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = love, life, and happiness.


	4. Hartwin: Mate

Prompt: "Well now we need a Hartwin soulmate one!"

* * *

Eggsy has tried everything, including showing Harry the mark on his arm, which matches Harry’s exactly. But Harry refuses to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, they’re meant to be.

Eggsy chalks it up to the injury. When Harry is healed up a little more, he’ll acknowledge it. He’ll understand that Eggsy means it when he says he loves Harry. He’ll kiss him back and it will be beautiful.

The rejections keep coming, though. It’s gotten to the point where Harry is actively avoiding Eggsy. Everyone is trying to help; Merlin is working on Harry, he says, telling him what a damn fool he is. The new Arthur schedules their appointments close together so they pass in the hall. Roxy has persuaded her elder brother, Percival, to hound Harry as well. Roxy herself helps Eggsy with his love-letters so they’re coherent and not so desperate. (Eggsy never sends them, but it makes him feel better to write them.)

Maybe he’s just avoiding out of stubbornness by now. With the whole of Kingsman–and, amazingly, Eggsy’s mum–trying to get him to _listen_ , he becomes even more deaf. Eggsy tries not to let this get to him.

The first time they’re assigned a mission together, Harry meets him at the airport and says bluntly, “Try anything and I’ll toss you out of the plane with no parachute.”

Eggsy remains silent for most of the mission, his heart finally beginning to break.

It’s no better when they come home, because Harry apparently decides that, since Eggsy had gone a week without declaring his love, that means he must be “over it”. This is even worse than being avoided, because it means Eggsy has to hide his lovelorn looks, his sad sighs, his desperate declarations. It _hurts_.

Gradually, everyone backs off. Eggsy goes around and thanks everyone individually for their help. Now _he’s_ the one avoiding _Harry_ , because he can’t look at him without wanting to burst into tears.

Harry seems happier, though. That’s a good thing. Right?

~

Harry is getting drunk alone when his thoughts turn to Eggsy.

He rolls up his sleeve and inspects his mark. It looks vaguely like a sun, with seven wiggly rays coming off of a ragged circle. It’s exactly the same as Eggsy’s, down to the last wiggle.

But Eggsy can’t be his soulmate, because Harry’s soulmate is dead. He died when they were in training together, before Eggsy was even born. They can’t be soulmates.

And… that makes him… sad?

He realizes with a start that it has always made him sad. He thought it was because he pitied Eggsy, the poor boy who so desperately wants Harry’s love. But maybe he was also pitying himself. Because they couldn’t be. They can’t be. They shouldn’t be.

But… (and this is a thought that shocks and frightens him) …maybe the marks don’t mean anything. Maybe he can love without being soulmates.

But _does_ he love?

He stands abruptly and heads for the door.

~

Eggsy, mum, and Daisy are at dinner when the doorbell rings. Eggsy frowns, but stands, wipes his fingers on his napkin, and goes to the door.

When he opens in, he blinks. “Harry?” he says in way of greeting.

“Good evening, Eggsy,” Harry says stiffly. “May I come in?”

“Yeah, sure.”

They go to the sitting room, because Harry obviously isn’t here for dinner. He smells heavily of drink. They stand there, looking at each other in awkward silence. Then Harry takes a deep breath and says, “I apologise for being an utter berk.”

Eggsy blinks again.

“I should not have ignored you that way, and I should not have invalidated your feelings. I should have listened to you, and I’m sorry I didn’t. I also apologise for threatening you.”

“Why?” Eggsy interrupts. “Why are you saying all this?”

Harry sighs heavily. “Because I think–well, I don’t _know_ , but I think, if I tried… I could love you back. Easily.”

Eggsy stares at him.

There is another awkward silence. Then Harry clears his throat and suggests lightly, “Is this the part where we kiss?”

“Yes,” Eggsy says simply.

So Harry kisses him, and Eggsy feels his heart mend.


	5. Hartwin: Candles

Prompt: "Hartwin - Harry might have a slight obsession with scented candles"

* * *

 

At first, Eggsy didn’t think about it. Harry bought some nice candles and burned them occasionally. No big deal.

Then Harry swapped out the tapers for something spicy-scented for their monthly candlelit dinner, which Eggsy smiled at, but didn’t really think much about.

Then he started burning one daily. Eggsy was puzzled, but said nothing.

Then Eggsy realized the scents were much more varied than they had been. So he poked around the house, and found that Harry had a candle in every room. It was nice, though, to smell flowers or cinnamon or spices when he walked into a room, so he let it go.

Then one day he opened the hall closet, and stared. An entire shelf had been taken over by candles. There were tapers, jars, pillars, tealights, and votives. There were even chime candles and wax melts. The wave of scent was so strong he sneezed. JB, sitting at his heels, sneezed too.

“Exactly,” he agreed with the pug, and shut the closet.

That night, while he and Harry were snuggled on the sofa watching telly (with a rose-scented candle burning), Eggsy asked casually, “So why so many candles, luv?”

“Hm? Oh.” Harry combed his fingers through Eggsy’s hair. “I buy one every time you come home alive.”

Eggsy blinked. “…Oh,” he said.

Harry laughed and kissed him. “No, I’m kidding. I like them. They’re nice.”

“I agree, but a whole _shelf_?”

“I admit, I did go a bit overboard a few times–”

“A _few_ times?” Eggsy snorted.

“Well, your mother bought some for me, too,” Harry defended himself. “And you must admit, candlelight is much nicer than electric.”

“No, I don’t gotta admit, because it’s not true. Harry, luv, you gotta back down on the candles. Please?”

Harry scowled a little, but his face softened quickly, and he kissed Eggsy’s forehead. “Alright. I will. But only because you asked so nicely.”

~

He didn’t. But Eggsy gave up the argument as pointless. Besides, candles really do make nice gifts to other people.


	6. Hartwin: Rip Current

Prompt: "Would not want to leave you hangin so here I come again: Eggsy is a lifeguard and Harry gets trapped in a rip tide. - And yes I have been binging Baywatch recently :D"

* * *

 

 

Eggsy sighed as he wandered along the beach towards the chair. He felt bad for Roxy, forced to sit up there when she was so terrified of heights. Eggsy himself had just gotten back from a false alarm; someone had thought their child was drowning, when really they were just shrieking and splashing for the pure joy of it. He’d brought them back to shore anyway, to show their parent that they were absolutely fine.

“Oi! You, lifeguard!”

He turned, surprised, to see a bald man in a t-shirt and slacks–slacks, on a beach? Really?–coming towards him. He seemed quite fierce, and for a moment Eggsy tensed, ready to fight or run, until he reminded himself that this _wasn’t_ London and this man did _not_ wish him harm.

“My friend is an idiot and got caught in a rip current, and the gurt fool went under,” the man said harshly. Now that he was closer, Eggsy could see the worry on his face. “I can’t swim, so I can’t get him. Haven’t you got boats or somethin’?”

“We do,” Eggsy answered, feeling his heart begin to beat faster. “Where’d he go under?”

~

He berates himself furiously even as he fights to keep above water. He really shouldn’t have decided to go swimming in the fucking _ocean_ when he was still recovering. He got confused, didn’t know which way was which, and began to panic–and now he’s drowning and he’s not even being held down by an enemy. How pathetic.

And then, as everything begins to dim, he feels something grab his arm. He fights automatically, but sluggishly, and then the thing is dragging him through the water. He doesn’t know which way is which, so he decides not to fight anymore. Also he _hurts_.

The world goes dark.

~

Eggsy is surprised to see that the man he pulls from the water has several interesting scars, one of which is very new, barely healed. He really is a fool and an idiot.

But he goes through the routine branded into his memory, and is rewarded with the older man suddenly coughing, spluttering, and heaving in great lungfuls of air, looking very surprised.

“This isn’t Hell,” he croaks, frowning in a most adorable fashion.

“No, it isn’t,” Eggsy replies cheerfully. “This is England, which is almost the same thing, but rainier.”

Surprisingly, the man laughs, though it turns into a coughing fit halfway through. Eggsy helps him sit up, and then notices that the bald man is standing beside them with his arms crossed, scowling thunderously.

“You’re an idiot,” the bald man tells the man who’d almost drowned.

“I’m glad I’m alive too, Merlin,” the other says serenely. “Let me guess: this is going on my records, Arthur will be furious, etcetera?”

Merlin scowls harder–then smiles faintly. “Yes, yes. Now thank the nice lifeguard and let’s go.”

“I have to call EMS,” Eggsy protests, “Standard procedure.”

Both older men smirk, like they know a secret. “We’ve never followed procedure,” the drowned man answers.

“And we’re not going to start now,” Merlin adds.

Eggsy frowns. “At least tell me your names,” he commands, then realizes how that sounds, and blushes.

The drowned man looks at him, calculating. Then he smiles. “Harry. Harry Hart.”


	7. Hartwin: Vow

Prompt: "...harry finds a rough draft of eggsy's wedding vows? his reaction is totally up to you!"

* * *

Harry is cleaning the house because he is bored.

He’s no longer an active agent, though he still trains, keeping sharp and strong. He still lives at his Kingsman-provided house. Only now his house has three more residents, four counting the dog–Eggsy, Michelle, and the baby.

He smiles fondly as he picks up another chew toy and examines the teeth marks to decide if this is the dog’s or the baby’s. He can never remember whose is whose–another mark of the bullet through his brain, along with his blind eye. But he knows teeth, and he knows that this is the dog’s, so he tosses it in the wicker basket half-hidden beside the sofa.

After the sitting room, he goes upstairs, to the office that is now Eggsy’s. Harry had taken down his own headlines, and is putting up all of Eggsy’s, despite the younger man’s protests. At least Eggsy doesn’t rip them down again. Harry straightens the desk (Eggsy likes to complain about Harry’s “meddling” but he never actually does anything about it), and as he does so, he accidentally knocks the hidden button that pops open the secret compartment. He shuts it, because Eggsy doesn’t know about it–

–wait.

He opens it again. There are papers in there. Regular ruled three-punch paper. He frowns, then shrugs. It’s none of his business.

Until he catches his name in the writing.

~

Eggsy doesn’t want to talk to mum about his day. Doesn’t want to hug or play with his sister or JB. Doesn’t want to drink with Harry. All he wants is to scream into his pillow and maybe cry.

The kid had only been four…

He stomps up the stairs, and is just passing the office when he hears someone clear their throat. He whirls, hand going for his gun, but it’s just Harry, staring at him with his one good eye. In his hands is a sheaf of papers. Eggsy frowns. He does not want to deal with more paperwork.

“So when were you planning to propose to me?” Harry asks, carefully offhand.

All the blood drains from Eggsy’s face as he realizes what those papers must be.

“Um–um–um–” he says.

“Because I take issue with the line “even if you name the new dog Mr. Pickle”.”

Eggsy blinks. Is… is Harry actually _nervous_? “I… I was…” he tries to explain weakly, but he can’t find the words.

“I assume you wrote that after I had that argument with your mum about proper names for pets,” Harry plowed on, “Which is very sweet, but you could phrase it better. I also don’t like the description of the cake, it sounds far too complicated. But back to the original question; when were you going to propose?”

“Um… when I found the right ring.”

“Well.” Harry set the papers very carefully in the compartment and closed it. “It’s early yet. Let’s go look at what the jewelers have to offer.”

Eggsy gaped at him. “You mean… y-you accept?”

“Of course I do,” Harry replied, beginning to frown as he walked over to where Eggsy was still frozen in the doorway. “I’ve known for quite a while that we were a good match, I just didn’t want to say anything.”

“You love me.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

Eggsy grabbed his collar and yanked him down for a kiss instead of answering.


	8. 00Q: Famous Dates

Prompt: 00Q, celebrity AU

* * *

 

“Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“Are you… you know…”

Q waited patiently for the interviewer to finish. The interviewer sighed and leaned forward to whisper, “Are you dating Bond?”

Q sipped his tea thoughtfully. “No,” he answered finally. “We are hanging out more now that he’s not a complete prick constantly, but dating? No.” He smiled slightly. “I suppose that is not what your readers want to hear?” he asked sweetly.

“Well… no,” the interviewer answered, pretending sheepishness.

“Well, if it’s relationship gossip you want, I know Bond is sleeping with someone.”

The interviewer’s eyes lit up. “Really?! Who? Is it his agent? Someone you both went to school with? Tell, tell!”

“No,” Q replied, and smiled wider at the interviewer’s crestfallen expression. “Ask him yourself. I’m sure he’ll be only too happy to brag.”

~

“…and I told him you’d brag about it.”

James laughed and finished his beer. “You minx! They’ll never leave me alone now.”

“That was my intention,” Q pointed out smugly, snuggling closer and smiling as James wrapped his arm around Q’s waist. “You’re better at fending off that kind of questioning than I am.”

“I concede that point.”

“Smug bastard.”

“Sly kitten.”

“Stop calling me that or I’ll hack your bank account and donate all your savings to an American charity.”

“As long as it’s a charity that actually helps people.”

“I hate you.”

James grinned and kissed Q thoroughly, until the other was gasping and mewling for more. “You love me.” He rubbed his thumb against Q’s jaw. “And I love you.”

“Oh, just kiss me again, you sappy bastard.”


	9. 00Q: Magic

There’s nothing magical about his fluency with numbers and coding. There’s no sorcery in his curiosity in, and subsequent mastery of, chemicals and biology. There’s no need to bring wizardry into his fascination with machines. In fact, his only magic is in brewing the perfect cuppa, whether for himself or another.

007, however… 007 has _loads_ of magic.

He’s full to the brim of untamed, unchecked, uncontrollable power. He can heal. He can call fire. He can make explosions if he concentrates. He can create forcefields around multiple people. He can wipe memories and implant false ones. His bones are fifty times stronger and lighter than anyone else’s, and he can triple his strength. He’s also immortal, or so the whispers say.

But he isn’t happy with his magic. Most people are; most people are glad that they have small things. Big things, like calling firestorms, or magicking buildings to stand strong against the elements, or healing, rarely bring happiness. Healers are in high demand, especially the strong ones, so most are in hiding.

No one in recorded history has as much magic as 007. And MI6 wants _him_ unrecorded, too. Which means plenty of work for Q-branch, covering up his messes.

But Q doesn’t mind. He admires 007, for staying sane this long. Q knows the theories behind magic (of course he does), all seventeen hundred of them; and most agree that, as the magnitude and scope of your power grows, the more you have to use it, otherwise it eats you up and you go insane, and then you have to be killed before you go on a murderous rampage. So Q doesn’t blame 007 for using his magic so often.

He just wishes it were writ down in his file that 007 can make people fall in love with him.

~

One day, 007 appears in Q’s office. Just–appears. Q looks up and frowns at him.

“Either you walk incredibly quietly or no one told me you can teleport,” he tells 007 dryly.

“I leave it to you to decide which,” 007 replies smoothly with a smirk.

“Cheeky. Do you have your equipment?” Because even if 007 can walk through fire unscathed, his equipment certainly can’t.

Q needn’t have worried. 007 produces all of his toys, though the gun is a bit battered, and sets them down on Q’s clean desk (he’d just cleaned it off, but by morning it will be a magpie’s nest again). “May I have a cup of tea?” 007 asks politely.

Q glares in exasperation, but something–he’s always suspected 007 of muscle-control–turns him on his stool, makes him stand, and walks him over to his tea station on the back wall. The electric kettle still has plenty of water in it; he turns it on again and chooses the tea he knows 007 is craving from the rack. It’s always like this; he can’t read minds, but he knows exactly what kind of tea people want. It’s saved all kinds of different meetings from disaster.

He decides it’s just the soft footsteps, because he only hears three before 007 is suddenly standing at his shoulder.

“How do you always know?” 007 asks, and maybe there’s sadness in his tone and maybe not.

“That’s my magic,” Q replies without looking up, just _knowing_ that 007 wants a few drops of lemon in his tea with two lumps of sugar. Good thing Q has a little bottle of lemon juice just for such an occasion. He’s made tea for 007 before, and after trying it himself, he has to admit that a little lemon in his tea is quite nice when he’s feeling sour himself.

The water is boiling. Q pours it into the mug, then adds two teabags (James likes it strong) and three drops of lemon before the two lumps of sugar.

“I wish I had your magic,” 007 murmurs, and Q knows, just like he knows tea, that 007 means it.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he turns and looks up into 007′s sad eyes (funny, when had he learned to read them?). “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

007 chuckles, a broken kind of sound. “You know. How the fuck do you always know?”

It’s said with bitterness, but no anger. He isn’t sneering at Q for claiming to know. He’s just… sad.

Q hands him his mug. “I’m not sure. Drink your tea. You’ll feel better.”

007 smiles faintly, takes a sip, sighs. “Thank you, Q.”

Q smiles back. “You’re welcome, James.”

007 does a double-take. “You called me James.”

“Astute as ever.”

“Why did you call me James?”

“Because…” Here Q frowns a little to himself. He can’t say because he’s feeling such a sudden, fierce wave of love. He can’t say because he wants to get lost in those eyes and beat back the sadness with a kiss. He can’t say the truth.

007–James– sets the tea down on the counter. “The truth, please.”

Q sighs. Well. Nothing for it. “I love you.”

James stares at him. For a very long time. Q looks back, keeping his face sober and sincere.

Then suddenly James’ hands shoot out, grab Q’s face, and drag him forward for a kiss. It’s messy, desperate, a mashing of faces with none of the artistry James usually shows. It’s glorious.

And when James and Q finally part, Q’s grinning giddily and James has a look of such wonder on his face that Q just wants to kiss him again. So he does. And James kisses back, wraps his arms around Q, holds him tight like he’s never letting go.

The tea grows cold, but neither of them care.


	10. Hartwin: Fanfic

_AGentlemanSpy posted a new chapter!_

Eggsy opened the link eagerly, not caring that he was in a crowded pub. His back was to the wall and he could always minimize in time.

He was waiting for Ryan and Jamal, but they wouldn’t be there for a while, which gave Eggsy time to read the next chapter in his favorite James Bond fic. AGentlemanSpy posted exclusively fic about spies and espionage, but that was fine; he was excellent at it. His writing always got hundreds of comments. And Eggsy liked to think he was AGentlemanSpy’s favorite commenter.

This chapter was scary. There was kidnapping, and allusions to torture, and scrambled trails as James fought to get Q home safe. It wasn’t 00Q (though Eggsy was into that); but it was written to show a deep friendship and trust between the two. Eggsy loved it.

He also loved that he was the only commenter AGentlemanSpy ever consistently replied to.

_Fuck this one was great! I especially love Q’s lines to the kidnappers._

_I’m glad you liked it. I took inspiration from your comment on the last chapter._

Eggsy resisted the urge to go all soft and melty inside. _Fuck, mate, you don’t gotta keep taking inspo from me. What’re your other muses?_

_No others. I would’ve abandoned this fic without you._

Eggsy blushed and fought a smile. He was not home and safe; he was in public, where anyone could demand to know who he was texting. _Careful, I may just take advantage._

_You may try. I doubt you’ll be able to._

_Oh, is that a challenge?_

Suddenly, a different commenter popped in; Father_of_Quartermasters. Another of AGentlemanSpy’s favorites. _Stop flirting, you two, you’re making everyone jealous._

_Including you?_ AGentlemanSpy asked.

_Stop it. And get back to work._

Eggsy sighed. _Next week?_

_Next week._

“Oi, Eggsy!”

Eggsy’s head snapped up and he hid his phone in his pocket. Ryan and Jamal were coming towards him, both looking excited. Ryan threw himself in the booth, and Jamal slid in beside him. “Did you read the new chapter?” Ryan asked eagerly, leaning forward.

“Fuck yes!” Eggsy answered, grinning. “What’d you think of it?”

“This may be the best one yet! Oh, and the author kept flirting with that agentgareth person. Just thought you should know.”

Eggsy hid another smile. “Thanks. What about the kidnapping? D’you think it was realistic? I did.”

~

 

Harry smiled as he finished the next chapter early. Time to send it to his beta.

“You’re spending too much time on that thing.”

“And yet you read every word and then go in the comments,” Harry replied without looking up.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Arthur wants to know what you’re doing with all your freetime,” he reported dryly.

“Tell him I’m writing an online book.”

“I did. He wants the title.”

“He’s not getting it.”

“Harry… someone’s going to find out eventually.”

“No they’re not. Read this for me, does it fit with the rest of the plot?”

Merlin sighed heavily and bent down to read the chapter. Harry leaned out of the way, feeling smug. He couldn’t wait to hear from agentgareth; they were so enthusiastic and bubbling over with ideas, he couldn’t help feeling like they were his only muse.

He’d read some of agentgareth’s stuff; not the best, but certainly not to worst. They had a gift for cutting to the heart of an issue, but they had no sense of mystery; their romances were flat, their smut was a mess, but their angst and hurt/comfort were gorgeous. They tended to write unrequited love, and explored the topic of abuse with such insight and discomforting frankness that Harry couldn’t help wondering what kind of Hell they’d been through.

Merlin straightened, looking thoughtful. “It fits perfectly,” he said slowly, “But why did you kill off that character?”

“Because agentgareth doesn’t like them,” Harry answered frankly.

Merlin stared. “You’re changing the entire plot for that little slip of a boy?” he demanded.

“Are they a boy?” Harry asked, surprised. Then he thought about if for a moment. Well, of course there were other men who enjoyed a good fic. It wasn’t exclusive.

“Yes, of course. I hacked him when you first started flirting. His name is Eggsy, he’s in his twenties, and you’d better back off because he’s on the edge of an infatuation.”

“How do you know?”

“Hacked his Skype.”

Harry frowned. Merlin scowled, but he did look a little embarrassed. “I wanted to be sure he wasn’t some kind of counter-spy,” Merlin muttered.

“You mean you’re jealous.”

“Stop saying that! I’m no more jealous of him than you are of my computers.” Merlin sighed heavily. “Just be careful, Harry.”

“Oh, come now, Merlin. What is he going to do, fall in love with me?

~

“I think I love him.”

Jamal and Ryan stared at Eggsy. Eggsy continued to gaze at the fic open on the computer screen in front of them, his chin in his hands. He was quite thoughtful as he continued, “He’s always nice, and he takes what I say and makes it amazing, and he flirts like there’s no tomorrow.”

“That’s not enough to love someone,” Jamal objected.

Eggsy pulled up his Skype and opened the conversation with AGentlemanSpy, also known as Harry. He didn’t mind showing his friends the flirtations, Harry’s praises, the way they built worlds and stories together so easily. He wanted to share how good Harry made him feel.

Ryan shook his head. “You’re doomed, mate.”

“He definitely wants you,” Jamal added.

Eggsy smiled. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = life, love, and happiness.


	11. Hartwin: Wrong Number

Prompt: "How about texted-the-wrong-number-and-now-I'm-falling-in-love-with-you Hartwin AU?"

* * *

**Unknown number** : Oi when r u gonna be here  
 **Unknown number** : y r u ignoring me  
 **Unknown number** : cmon fuckin berk answer me

**Harry** : I think you have the wrong number.

**Unknown number** : like fuck i do cmon wen u gonna be here

**Harry** : Seven.

~

**Unknown number** : fuck. fuck. fuckin hell mate. im sorry. i dunno y he gave me the wrong #

**Harry** : I don’t either. Thank you for your apology.

**Unknown number** : yeah

~

**Unknown number** : heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

**Harry** : Are you drunk?

**Unknown number** : mo  
 **Unknown number** : ni  
 **Unknown number** : no

**Harry** : Please delete my number.

**Unknown number** : hear me out mate  
 **Unknown number** : u kno those monkeys  
 **Unknown number** : the kind with balloons 4 noses

**Harry** : Proboscis monkey?

**Unknown number** : yea whatevr  
 **Unknown number** : what if  
 **Unknown number** : what if there noses came off  
 **Unknown number** : and they used em like bike horns

**Harry** : That image is fairly amusing, but it is currently 2AM and I would like to go back to sleep now.

**Unknown number:** sure sure

~

**Unknown number** : [image file]

**Harry** : Stop sending me pictures of your sister. I told you to delete my number.

**Unknown number** : change ur number

**Harry** : Fuck off.

~

**Annoyance** : hey u asleep

**Harry** : I was.

**Annoyance** : sorry  
 **Annoyance** : whats ur name

**Harry** : Harry.  
 **Harry** : Why do you ask?

**Annoyance** : cool. my names Eggsy.

**Harry** : ?

**Annoyance** : just in case

**Harry** : In case of what?

~

**Annoyance** : in hospital

**Harry** : Why? What happened?

**Annoyance** : dunno. jumped me. im fine

**Harry** : Not if you’re in the hospital you’re not.

**Annoyance** : knew u liked me

**Harry** : Shut up. Should I contact anyone for you?

**Annoyance** : its fine. mum knows

**Harry** : Why did you text me?

**Annoyance** : bcuz u won’t tell

**[Change contact name?]  
[Contact name changed to: Eggsy. Confirm?]  
[Contact information saved.]**

~

**Eggsy** : home

**Harry** : Good. Be more careful next time.

**Eggsy** : [image file]

**Harry** : Is that a new onesie she’s wearing?

~

**Harry** : You haven’t texted in a while. Is everything alright?  
 **Harry** : Hello?  
 **Harry** : Text me when you can.

~

**Harry** : It’s been two bloody months, answer me, you little prick.

~

**Harry** : Eggsy, please answer me.

~

**Eggsy** : who the fuck is this

**Harry** : This is Harry, remember?

**Eggsy** : don’t remember you. you got the wrong number.

**Harry** : Ah. Terribly sorry. Have a good day.

**[Delete contact?]  
[Contact deleted]**

~

**Unknown number** : Harry

**Harry** : Eggsy?

**Unknown number** : its been 4 fuckin months how do u remember me

**Harry** : How do YOU remember ME?

**Unknown number** : dunno  
 **Unknown number** : send me a pic

**Harry** : Of me?

**Unknown number** : yeah

**Harry** : [image file]

**Unknown number** : fuck  
 **Unknown number** : ur gorgeous

**Harry** : Not how I would describe myself, but thank you.

**Unknown number** : [image file]

**Harry** : You’re not too bad yourself. Your moles are cute.

**Unknown number** : fuck off they r not

**Harry** : Yes they are.

**Unknown number** : flatterer

**Harry** : You’ve caught me out. How’s your sister?

**[Change contact name?]  
[Contact name changed to: Eggsy. Confirm?]  
[Contact information saved.]**

~

**Eggsy** : meet up w/me

**Harry** : When and where?

~

**Eggsy** : had a good time last night

**Harry** : Me too. Shall we do this again sometime?

**Eggsy** : tmrrw? same time/place?

**Harry** : Of course. I’m looking forward to it.

~

**Harry** : Good morning, darling.

**Eggsy** : im in the same fuckin bed as u

**Harry** : I know.

Eggsy rolls over and glares at Harry with sleep-gummed eyes. Harry smiles. “Would you prefer if I said it aloud?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Eggsy grumbles.

Harry leans down and kisses him gently. “Good morning, my darling,” he murmurs.


	12. Medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't 00Q, this is just Q and Moneypenny being friends.

“What’s this?”

“My medicine.” Q snatched the bottles from Eve and tucked them back in his desk drawer. “I have new prescriptions.”

Eve frowned at him. “Are you sick?” she asked worriedly. “Is it to do with that coughing fit you had last week?”

Q shook his head, face going closed and tight. “It is nothing to do with my coughing,” he said.

Eve took a breath to ask for clarification, but Q was already turning back to his computer. So she just kissed his head, stroked his hair, and murmured, “When you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.”

Q nodded, shoulders relaxing slightly. He still didn’t explain.

~

The psychiatrist, Dr. O’Harris, made a note on her computer. “So it’s working so far?” she asked.

Q picked at his nails for a moment, then nodded. “I haven’t had a manic episode in a month,” he answered reluctantly. “And the antidepressants help me sleep.”

“Are you taking them regularly?” Dr. O’Harris pressed, giving him a stern look.

Q fidgeted.

“Clyde, they won’t help unless you take them,” Dr. O’Harris chided him gently.

“I know,” he muttered, staring at his hands. “I just keep forgetting.”

It was a lie, and he felt guilty for telling it, but he couldn’t tell her that he hated his medicine. It made him feel weak. It made his subordinates give him worried looks. They’re not going to be happy until they find out what the hell is wrong with him, and he couldn’t let them know. He couldn’t let anyone know.

~

Eve was worried. There was something wrong with Q. True, he wasn’t taking as many days off, and he wasn’t as snappish at times as he had been, but he also wasn’t smiling as much, or doing that happy little bounce every three steps he sometimes did. He just always looked tired, and even if he worked hard and was very sensible, he no longer had those wild sparks of genius that made him create in a frenzy, things that were either utterly brilliant or completely useless.

He was also no longer losing his temper, in his cold, quiet way, and he wasn’t having anxiety attacks, and he was paying attention in meetings. That was all very good. But it wasn’t _Q_.

Eve looked up all these different things, worried for him. Was he really sick, and trying not to worry anyone? Had something terrible happened to his family? She knew he was divorced and had two children who he loved dearly; was something wrong with them? Or was something wrong with _him_?

She researched, and came to a slow, surprising, unsettling conclusion.

She went on a special forum, described the situation, and asked for help. She received several replies, most of them telling her the same thing. One of them was very rude about it and called her an interfering cow. But others were polite about it, and they all seemed to agree on one thing.

So the next time she went down to have lunch with him, she sat on the edge of his desk and said, “Talk.”

“About what?” he asked tiredly.

“About what’s wrong.”

His face pinched in that way it tended to do nowadays when anyone asked if he was alright, as he replied, “There’s nothing wrong.”

Eve glanced over her shoulder. The door was firmly locked. No one was going to overhear. Then she turned a hard stare on Q.

“When were you going to tell me you’re bipolar?”

Q went very still, eyes wide. Then he sagged, shoulders slumping, looking tireder than tired. “Of course you’d find out,” he murmured. “What did you do? Follow me? Sneak a peek at my appointments? Look up my medicine?”

“No. I used my knowledge of how you used to be.” She bit her lip slightly as he flinched and looked away. “Darling, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s none of your business,” Q answered stiffly.

Eve had no answer for that. It really wasn’t. But it would’ve been nice to know! She wouldn’t be so worried about him if she’d known what was going on!

But it wasn’t any of her business. Just because they were friends didn’t mean they owed it to each other to expose _all_ their secrets.

She sighed and hugged him gently, resting her cheek on his head. He leaned his forehead on her shoulder, but did not hug back.

“Darling, I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I was just worried about you.”

“I knew this would happen,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “I knew you would all hate the kind of person I’d become on meds.”

“What!” Eve pulled back enough to stare down at Q, horrified. “Hate you? No, darling, we don’t hate you. You’re just different.”

“But you don’t like it,” Q pressed, looking so sad that Eve wanted to shoot someone. “You don’t like that I’m always tired and sad and stupid.”

“You’re never stupid.”

“I _feel_ stupid.”

Eve hugged him close again, stroking his hair. “You’re not stupid, darling,” she murmured. “And there’s nothing wrong with seeking help. I’m glad you’re not angry as much, and I’m glad you’re not so scared.”

“But I am scared. Eve, I’m fucking _terrified_. I don’t want anyone to know. Promise you won’t tell. _Promise_.”

“I promise, love.”


	13. Hartwin: Slow-dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because _there are never enough slow-dancing fics_

“A gentleman must know how to slow-dance.”

“Uh-uh.” Eggsy shook his head hard. “I failed the dancing unit in training.”

“Because Merlin doesn’t understand how to teach dancing.” Harry held out his hand. Eggsy eyed him warily, then sighed and took the hand, and bit back an undignified yelp as Harry lifted him to his feet easily. God, the _strength_ of the man…

“I can’t even dance regularly,” Eggsy complained, his hand tingling as Harry let go. “How am I supposed to slow-dance?”

“Like this.”

Harry stepped forward and grabbed Eggsy’s wrists. Eggsy tensed immediately, but Harry was just positioning his arms… and then he stepped closer still, so that one of Eggsy’s hands was on Harry’s arm and the other was held up by Harry and Harry’s free hand settled on Eggsy’s waist. Eggsy tensed even more, years of running from every unwelcome touch mixing with the training that told him not to let others touch him so intimately–

But this was Harry, and he would not hurt Eggsy. So, gradually, Eggsy relaxed. Then he realized that Harry hadn’t moved, letting Eggsy get used to this. As soon as he realized that, though, Harry began to pull him to the side.

“One step, Eggsy. Follow my lead. One, two, three four; one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four…”

Carefully, slowly, Harry led Eggsy around the room once. Eggsy scowled and grumbled, but learning to dance with Harry was far more enjoyable and soothing than learning with people who already knew how to dance. Soon, with Harry murmuring time, Eggsy’s feet learned the rhythm, and he managed a credible performance by the fifth circuit. Harry smiled warmly and Eggsy felt his insides go all warm and gooey with pride.

“Excellent,” Harry murmured. “One more round, just to make sure, and then we’ll sit.

Eggsy actually lost count of how many rounds they went. He just knew that at some point he leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry didn’t push him away.

Slow dancing wasn’t that bad after all.


	14. Hartwin: Maybe...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in three small parts.

1.

“I don’t like you like… like _that_.”

Harry frowned. “’Like that’?” he repeated.

Eggsy sighed, looking uncomfortable. “Yer… yer my boss, my teacher. I don’t like you as anything else.”

Harry’s frown cleared. “Ah,” he said. “I see. Thank you for telling me.”

Eggsy nodded uncertainly. “Can I go now?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes.” Harry backed up, and Eggsy slipped past him and to the door. Harry stared at the wall blankly until he heard the door close.

Then he let himself slump, rubbing his good eye gingerly. He should have guessed. The other knights hated having a pleb in their midst; of course they’d try to stir up trouble by making him think Eggsy fancied him as much as he fancied Eggsy. He’d _known_ that. And he’d still let himself hope.

But they probably hadn’t expected him to just ask outright. To say, “Eggsy, do you like me?” They probably expected him to make a move, to make Eggsy uncomfortable enough to leave. But he wouldn’t. He had asked, and now he had an answer. There was no point thinking about it further.

He turned and left the room.

 

2.

Eggsy avoided Harry as much as possible, because he’d begun to think, and his thoughts were… disquieting.

He’d guessed Harry was favoring him, sometime around Daisy’s birthday, when Harry had mysteriously run out of missions for Eggsy. This had been confirmed when Harry insisted Eggsy stay in medical an extra day or two when he’d been stupid enough to get his leg broken–”to make sure you’re well enough to not make the same mistake” was Harry’s excuse, though his eyes had been worried.

Eggsy had thought it was just because Eggsy was Harry’s choice, and he wanted him to succeed; but then Harry had asked if Eggsy liked him.

Liked him? _Liked_ him? If Eggsy were to love anyone (besides mum and Dais of course), it would be Harry, the man who’d saved him, reshaped him, taught him so much about himself and what he could do. But he didn’t love Harry, that was silly. Harry was his mentor, and, later, his boss. He felt nothing for him but deep admiration.

Admiration that made him wish Harry had kissed him instead of asking such a stupid, inane question. Maybe he’d be more sure of his answer if Harry had kissed him, touched him in some way–

Eggsy shook his head and got back to cooking dinner for him, mum, and Daisy. There was no love in him for Harry. None.

~

Harry did not show that he was disappointed. Nor did he change his behavior. He refused to, unless Eggsy asked him to. And he never did.

But he found that the ache in his chest whenever he saw Eggsy got deeper and wider and more painful by the day. He realized he was always aware of where Eggsy was in the room, that his eye tended to settle on or track Eggsy more than any other knight, that he asked for more sit-reps on Eggsy’s missions than on anyone else’s, including Lancelot’s.

He was, he realized with disgust, _pining_.

He lamented his woes to Merlin, but Merlin simply said “Mm” and “How dreadful” and “Oh dear”, as if he wasn’t listening. He was–Harry _knew_ he was–but it was still frustrating enough that he gave up and went away. Just as Merlin had planned.

So Harry pined in silence.

~

“Is your boyfriend Harry coming over for dinner tomorrow?”

Eggsy jerked and dropped the pan he’d been scrubbing back in the sink, splashing sudsy water. “ _Mum_!”

“What?” she asked, bewildered.

“He’s not–I mean–we’re just–he’s my _boss_!”

Mum went very quiet as she finished drying a plate. “…Well, I think he fancies you,” she said finally, looking back up at Eggsy. Her expression was thoughtful and calculating. “Is that good or bad, in your line of work?”

“Bad. Very bad.” Eggsy wiped his hands on his apron and picked up the pan again.

“Why do you like him back, then?”

Eggsy almost dropped the pan again. “I don’t!”

Now mum smirked slyly. “It’s alright, wee, you don’t have to lie to me,” she encouraged sweetly. “I won’t tell.”

“I don’t like him, though. I–”

But what if he did?

…Oh god.

 

3.

“Harry? Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Harry looked up, surprised. Eggsy didn’t usually call him by name; that was reserved for when they were both off duty. Whatever he wanted to talk about, it must be very important. “Yes, of course. Come in.”

Eggsy entered the office and pulled the door shut behind him. Uh-oh. _Extremely_ important.

“Sit down,” Harry invited, but Eggsy shook his head.

“Nah, I’d… I’d rather not,” he mumbled, fidgeting slightly. Then he took a breath and asked in a rush, “SorememberhowyouaskedifIlikedyouandIsaidnotlikethewayyoumeant?”

Harry frowned, sorting through the sentence, but once he realized what Eggsy had said, his eyes widened. “Yes,” he said cautiously, “I remember.”

“Well…” Eggsy looked at the ground and shifted his weight from side to side. “What if I was wrong?”

“Sorry?”

“What if I was wrong? What if I did like you? Would you be angry?”

“Why would I be angry?” Harry asked, surprised, and daring to hope.

“Because… I dunno,” Eggsy mumbled, scuffing his toe on the carpet.

Harry stood, slowly, and circled the desk to stand in front of Eggsy. Gently, he gripped Eggsy’s chin and brought his face up to look at Harry.

“How does dinner sound?” he asked with a small smile. “Somewhere casual. We can discuss it then.”

Eggsy’s confused expression went all shy, and he smiled. “Dinner sounds good.”


	15. 00Q: Acex2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm demisexual so I thought I'd write a bit about ace!Bond and ace!Q.

Q is still getting over Bond when he hears that Bond and Dr. Swann have broken up. He feels sorry for them both. They had seemed to like each other very much. But Q gets on with his work, as does Bond, and eventually Q is no longer jealous of Dr. Swann. In fact, he goes so far as to send her an email, politely asking about her latest scientific paper, which he read with great interest. She doesn’t respond. He doesn’t push.

Eventually, he forgets about her. She wasn’t _his_ girlfriend, though she was extremely helpful dealing with Spectre. No, instead, his interest in Bond intensifies again.

He’d noticed before, but Bond doesn’t flirt very much at MI6. On missions it’s as easy as breathing; on home ground? Not so much. He’s quiet, hard on equipment and himself, doesn’t talk much to anyone except the other agents, Tanner, M, and Q. Q puts it down to his being older now, and cracked. Not broken, no, James Bond is too tough for that, like well-made and maintained leather. But he’s fraying at the seams, and he’s just a little bit cracked with constant use.

Q can’t help hoping that he’ll be able to help Bond remake himself with something a little stronger than leather.

~

James is still trying to get over what Madeleine had said.

_“I don’t believe in asexuals. No human being can possibly be without a sex drive.”_

It had stung, and then it had ached. Even with the evidence before her, she hadn’t accepted that he was ace. A low drive, maybe so, but ace? Impossible. No such thing. Hadn’t James admitted to having perhaps hundreds of partners over the years? How could anyone claiming to be ace have that much sex?

Never mind that he’d been perfectly content _not_ having sex. Never mind that he’d also admitted to never fully enjoying it, with anyone. Never mind that he’d tried to explain, multiple times, that there were multiple ways to be asexual, and his was just… not… he’d finally given up. And she’d left. And now James is alone again.

He’s used to being alone, though. So he got used to having another hole in his chest where his heart ought to be.

~

Q is eating his lunch while his code compiles, feet up on the desk, watching the screens on the wall. He’s running three missions and a tracker for a suspected terrorist while he waits and eats. None of his agents need him yet, and the tracker has only just been let loose. He has some breathing room.

“So are you straight or gay?”

Q jumps, almost dropping his sandwich, and whips his head around to stare at Bond. The other watches him closely, with a serious expression.

“I don’t see why it should matter,” Q answers stiffly.

“I want to set you up on a date with someone,” is the horrifying answer.

“ _What_?!” Q squawks, attracting looks from all around the room. In a lower tone, he hisses, “I hope to Christ you’re joking, because if not you’re going on your next mission with a water pistol!”

“I’ll just fill it with acid. I know some people you might be interested in and—“

“I’m asexual,” Q replies bluntly.

Bond blinks, surprised. Then, maddeningly, he smiles. It’s really just one corner of his mouth lifting, but it’s still a smile. “Good. Will you have dinner with me?”

Q wants to say no. But he wants so badly to say yes. He’s still a little bit infatuated. So instead of saying ‘no, go fuck yourself’, he says, “Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I—y-yes, tomorrow is alright.”

“Thank you.”

And Bond just… walks away.

Q stares after him, stunned. After a few minutes, he returns to eating his sandwich and watching the screens. Bond will forget, or change his mind, or reveal it was just a joke. They won’t actually go to dinner tomorrow.

Maybe he’ll dress a little nicer than usual, just in case.


	16. Hartwin: Hotline

Prompt (that I didn't follow as well as I hoped I would): "How about Hartwin meeting through a hotline (for suicidal people, those with depression, whatever)? Eggsy calls it whenever things at home are too much for him (with Dean's demands and looking after Daisy when his mum's working). And he just monologues into his phone, not caring for any response. And Harry is of course on the other end, volunteering between shifts at Kingsman. (As fluffy as you can make it please ❤)"

 

* * *

 

“Hi, um, I don’t really know how to, how to use these things, so um…”

“Just talk. We’re here to listen, after all.”

Eggsy bites his lip. He’s hiding behind a Dumpster, the snow soaking through the seat of his jeans and landing cold and heavy on his head and shoulders. But he doesn’t want to be home right now.

“I can’t go home,” he says finally, thinking that’s as good a start as any.

“Why not?” asks the bloke on the other end, gently.

Eggsy’s lip trembles; he bites it again, hard, and takes a deep breath through his nose. “M’ stepdad… he said… I can’t go back, I just can’t. Not yet. Not until he’s sober. But he might hurt mum, or the baby–-he won’t, he wouldn’t, he knows I’d kill ‘im–-well, I’d try. He’s bigger’n me. But I’d fight him.”

Silence. Eggsy babbles on, talking about how Dean has been getting drunk at all hours of the day, lately, how tiring it is to take care of the baby, how horrible it is to see his mum getting more and more desperate to find a job as Dean drinks up more and more of their savings, how frustrating and demoralizing it is that Eggsy can’t find a job either, how terrible everything is in general. He knows others have it worse–-fuck, even this Henry bloke must have it bad, to be working at a fucking hotline–-but at the moment his own life is the bitter tragedy that takes center stage.

Henry listens. Doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t give advice, just listens. Eggsy finds himself crying as he talks, and rocking back and forth in his hiding place, and feeling so glad to get it _out_ , get it _away_ from him. When he’s done he plants his forehead on his knees and waits.

“Is that everything?” Henry asks, still gentle.

“Yeah,” Eggsy sniffles. “Yeah. That’s everything.”

~

Harry feels drained after that call, but he gets up, fortifies himself with a cup of tea, and goes back to his cubicle. The rules dictate he’s not allowed to call the police unless it’s a life-threatening situation; and while part of him is worried for the nameless young man, most of him (the spy part) is unconcerned. It’s only a boy with a bad home life. It’s not like there aren’t thousands of people in his situation in London alone.

~

Eggsy calls the hotline again the next day because Ryan and Jamal ditched him to go riding with a pair of pretty girls, Dean hit him when he admitted he still hadn’t found a job, mum cried for three hours straight, and Daisy wouldn’t stop screaming, no matter what anyone did. So Eggsy hides behind his dumpster and calls.

It’s Henry again. He greets Eggsy by name, warm and friendly, and Eggsy just breaks down, babbling out everything that had happened that day, apologizing that it’s only been a day, tripping over his words, unable to stop. When he’s done he leans his head on his knees, takes a breath, lets it out slowly.

“Sorry,” he croaks again.

“It’s alright. That’s why we’re here.”

Eggsy smiles faintly.

~

Sometimes Eggsy calls a few days in a row, sometimes he goes a week without. Harry finds it strange that Eggsy only calls him, until he’s getting tea one day and Marsha interrupts him to say, “That Eggy boy was transferred to you, you’d better hurry. He’s already crying.”

Harry abandons his cup of tea and hurries to his cubicle.

Yes, Eggsy is sniffling, and the moment Harry says “Hello?” he starts sobbing. Harry listens to him cry for a moment, startled, then tries cautiously, “Eggsy, what’s wrong?”

“Can’t… c-can’t tell you,” Eggsy gasps between sobs. “Can’t tell anyone. Dean said.”

Harry’s hand is inching for the computer mouse. He’s going to tip the police, damn the consequences. He just has to keep Eggsy on the line.

“What _can_ you tell?” he asks gently, then, as the tears increase in intensity, he adds hastily, “Tell me about the dog park.”

“D-dog park?”

“You said you walk through the dog park every day. Did you see any good dogs?” He ignores the strange looks he's getting.

“All dogs are good dogs.” But at least Eggsy’s crying is winding down. He sniffs, hard. “Saw puppies. Lots of puppies.”

“Tell me about the puppies.”

So Eggsy does. Harry gets an email from the police while Eggsy is tentatively describing a play-fight he’d witnessed; they know the boy’s number, he’s called them many times about domestic violence. But there has never been any “hard evidence”. So they couldn’t arrest anyone.

Rage coils in Harry’s gut as he calmly talks Eggsy through the tears. When Eggsy is calmer, Harry asks, “What happened?”

Eggsy told him, and the rage explodes.

~~~

_Five days later_

Eggsy hasn’t been home for five days. He’s too scared. He hasn’t even stayed in the same neighborhood, avoiding all his usual hangouts.

But he has to go home. He has to make sure mum and Dais are alright.

So he gathers his wavering courage and slinks through the shadows to the estates. None of Dean’s gang are around, which is… startling. But he swallows hard and pushes on, climbing the stairs slowly.

He fumbles his key out of his pocket with shaky hands, but before he can open the door, it slams wide. He jumps, but when he sees it’s just mum, he relaxes.

“Mum–” he begins, and then he’s being hugged within an inch of his life, mum peppering his cheeks and forehead with kisses.

“Oh, god, babe, I thought I lost you too!” she sobs, and draws him into the flat. “The police called, they have Dean in custody, I thought they had you too, god, wee, I was so worried!”

“I’m sorry, mum. I–I had to run.” He can’t tell her why. But the bruises on her face are faded, and Daisy isn’t crying.

Daisy isn’t crying.

A curious coo draws Eggsy’s attention to the cot. Daisy is standing, clinging to the rail, and laughs when he looks at her. He’s never heard her laugh.

Eggsy walks over and picks Daisy up. “Look how big you got,” he whispers, smiling as she coos again and pats his face with her tiny hands. “Five days and you’re already bigger. Mum–-mum, what happened?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t here to see. But… wee… I have a job. And Dean’s gone. And you’re home. And…” She covers her mouth with her hands, shaking, and Eggsy immediately goes to her, one arm holding Daisy and the other wrapping around mum’s shoulders. Mum suddenly begins to laugh. “Oh, god, babe, it’s a fuckin’ Christmas miracle!”

That brings Eggsy’s head up, and he spots the paltry tree in the corner. Oh-–that’s right. It is Christmas.

Why does that fill him with such warmth?

He looks at his mum and his sister and realizes why.

~

Harry watches through the camera he’d placed when he’d led the police on a raid of the flat. He toasts the little family with his brandy.

“Happy Christmas, Eggsy,” he murmurs warmly.


	17. Hartwin: Knight and Lieutenant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annaofaza wanted me to "fix" this but I just made it worse so here you go enjoy.

Lieutenant Eggsy rubbed his hand as he plodded down the hall to the kitchen. Training had not gone well; the recruits were clumsy, didn’t understand sword-work, didn’t like spears, and one had almost been trampled by a horse. Eggsy had saved the man, of course, but it had been a near thing. Spooked horses just… calmed down around Eggsy.

People didn’t. He’d made the recruits nervous (again), and his corporal had insisted Eggsy go to the kitchen for noon-meal instead of the hall, so the other soldiers could reassure the recruits that the lieutenant did not eat people who displeased him without his sitting too near. Which was ridiculous. Eggsy sat at the officer’s tables, not the soldier’s. Or, he was supposed to. He preferred to rub elbows with common men than bother with the commissioned officers. But he knew he made people nervous, and anyway he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He’d just eat his noon-meal with the servants and hope they didn’t get jumpy too.

Eggsy was the first lieutenant to make it all the way up from the rank of militiaman. He was hard and strong and famous in the army for being harsh but fair. The captain left most of the work of running the army itself to Eggsy while _he_ danced attendance on pretty ladies and used his rank to get extra wine from the merchants who passed by occasionally. (Not that Eggsy cared about pretty ladies, he was far more interested in men–who never seemed to catch his drift when he tried to find out if they were interested back.)

But Eggsy was tired, too. He was so tired. So he’d go and eat, and when he came back he’d watch the recruits train some more before going to help with the horses. The stablehands weren’t scared of him, at least.

“Lieutenant.”

“Sir knight.”

Galahad fell in beside Eggsy. Eggsy didn’t know why Galahad was so obsessed with him; it bordered on uncomfortable. But he was the one in charge of the fort, so Eggsy could hardly tell him to clear off.

Eggsy was in his thirties, so he supposed Galahad was in his sixties. He was still a powerful man, though, tall and straight-backed and -shouldered, with only some gleams of dignified silver in his brown hair. There were lines on his face, hard lines, but they made him look dignified instead of old. His mind was still sharp and his body still strong; Eggsy admired him greatly, especially after seeing him spar against three other, younger knights at once, and beat them.

But it was still uncomfortable, the way he watched Eggsy, like there was no one else in the whole world and Eggsy was simply fascinating. Which he wasn’t, he was quite sure of that.

They walked in silence, until they came to the last corner that would take them to the kitchens. Then Galahad stopped, and put his hand on Eggsy’s arm.

“Lieutenant… I have a question,” Galahad said in a low voice, staring at Eggsy in that funny way again.

“Yes, sir?” Eggsy asked warily, just as quietly.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Eggsy hesitated. He didn’t want to offend, but if Galahad was offering to back off…

“The truth, please.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you do. Sir.”

“Ah.” And suddenly he just looked… so sad. Old and sad and as tired as Eggsy felt. “I apologise.”

He put his hand on Eggsy’s cheek, gently, and just looked at him for a minute. Then he nodded and walked away.

Eggsy bolted to the kitchens, where there were no knights and their strange ways to mess with his head.

~

“You’re a fool,” Merlin, the spymaster and court magician, told Sir Harry frankly.

Sir Harry finished his ale and scowled at his best (and perhaps only) friend. “I know I am, there’s no need to remind me,” he grumbled.

“There most certainly is. You’re almost retirement age, Harry. You’re supposed to be thinking about heirs. But instead you’re pining after a man half your age who isn’t even in the same class! Get out there, find a girl to marry, have children, and stop moping.”

“I don’t want a girl,” Sir Harry grumbled, “I want Eggsy.”

Merlin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It didn’t matter who Merlin took up as a lover, because he was a magician, and therefore his heir was his apprentice. But Harry had an estate, _piles_ of money, and a reputation to uphold. Galahad the Pure needed to marry the purest of wives, so they could have a child to take up his mantle. But no, instead he wanted a common soldier with no reputation to speak of. What a mess.

“Tell him,” Merlin suggested abruptly. “Tell him how you feel.” ‘Then he’ll reject you and you’ll have to move on’ was the unspoken addition.

“I know what you’re getting at, Merlin,” Harry growled, waving his ale-mug in Merlin’s general direction. He was definitely drunk. “You want me to hear him reject me. Well, he already has. So there’s no point.”

“Did you _actually_ tell him?” Merlin asked sardonically.

Harry slumped. “No,” he muttered.

“Exactly. Tell him. Or I will.”

Harry sat bolt upright again, gaping at Merlin. “You’re not serious!” he spluttered.

“Oh, I’m very serious. Do it, Galahad. Just… do it.”

~

Eggsy was in the stable, taking care of his horse after their afternoon patrol, when Galahad walked in and approached him.

Eggsy watched him warily. Now that Galahad had stopped staring and following him around, Eggsy had been able to relax, and that had, in turn, made his soldiers relax. He hadn’t realized so many of his problems had been because he’d been nervous.

“How can I help you, sir?” Eggsy asked Galahad.

Galahad sighed, and said, looking at the horse, “I… have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“I don’t think horses know what discussion is,” popped out of Eggsy’s mouth.

Galahad stared at him, and Eggsy flushed. Then Galahad smiled. Eggsy had never seen him smile. It was a very nice smile.

“I apologise. I… that is…” Galahad looked around again, but they were alone except for the horses. Eggsy waited. Galahad’s smile had given way to slight anxiety. Then he took a deep breath and blurted, “I appear, against my better judgement, to have developed romantic feelings for you.”

Eggsy blinked.

“I suppose it wasn’t against my better judgement I was not actually thinking about it you see it just happened and I do apologise for making you uncomfortable for so long but I simply could not think of the words and I still can’t oh lord I am so sorry,” Galahad babbled, turning a deeper red than even Eggsy could manage. “What I am trying to say is that I–I–I love you.”

Eggsy blinked again.

There was a tense, bewildered pause. Galahad seemed frozen with mortification, and Eggsy simply could not process this very well.

“You love me,” he repeated.

“Most ardently,” Galahad agreed.

Eggsy took another minute to digest this. Then he said, “Thank you for telling me.”

Galahad was still staring at him, as if waiting for him to say more. But what was there to say? Eggsy really didn’t want to hurt him, but he just…

“I… um.”

“Do you at least like me?” Galahad asked anxiously.

“No,” Eggsy said softly, his eyes drawn to his toes. “No, I do not. I admire you, but I do not like your romantically.”

“Ah,” Galahad murmured.

Another minute of silence. Then Galahad took another deep breath, let it out, said, “Thank you for your honesty,” and walked away.

Eggsy turned back to his horse. When he was sure Galahad was gone, he pressed his forehead against the horse’s neck and closed his eyes, trying to sort through his emotions. No, it was too confusing. He’d sort it all out later. For now… he had to go put the fear into the recruits.


End file.
